Sic Transit Gloria Nihil

(or “Old Poem, Written Age 18”)

We live in a world full of false attribution,
Where people smear filth and then call it ablution;
Where lies are the most common type of pollution,
And all that gets over are cheaters and cons —

We breathe in the air of congenital aping,
Our souls full of holes that are growing and gaping
While no word of truth from our lips is escaping,
Misleading our brothers and sisters, our pawns —

We die in this place of eternal damnation
Without ever knowing we’re needing salvation;
And wait till the last to feel our consternation,
And only then claiming our crimes to forswear —

We’re buried with all that is totally rotten,
And sooner than later, we’re all but forgotten,
And wrapped in our silks or our nylon or cotton
We still try to speak, but we don’t have a prayer

Summer Calling

Amid the fields and rivers
And scent of honeycomb,
I heard the summer calling
For me to head back home.

The sky was tinged with cantaloupe,
The wind was warm and slack,
But I knew if I made it home
I’d never make it back.

Out by the ancient river,
I said my last goodbyes
To summer, with its passions,
Beneath those melon skies.

For one day, we must turn away
From all that we know best:
For when the summer calls us home,
It’s finally time

To rest

The Pride of Lucy

Lucy sat out in the sun
In cold and clear September;
She modeled for us her new life,
I always will remember

The pride she wore upon her face
As she soaked in the rays;
Not knowing pills and Crystal Head
Would soon cut short her days.

The pride of Lucy, young and full
Of beauty and its power;
The sharpened razor blades, so cold,
That hacked to death

The flower


 

(“The Pride of Lucy” – 12-27-2015)

The Show Goes On

The show goes on; the dead have played their part.
But still we wait for one more cue, or line:
Those ne’er said words that we have known by heart,
And memorized, as though a valentine

That we will never feel in hand, or see.
The looked for, listened for, and waited on
That will not heed our cry, or hear our plea;
For love’s most fully owned when it is gone.

The show goes on; the dead have played their role,
But there’s no point in dialogue, or mark;
You live, although you’re missing half your soul,
A sunflower within the gray and dark —

    For none of it makes any kind of sense,
    The scene, the plot, the play, the

    Audience

The Open Gate

Beckoning…

Beckoning, the open gate,
On a summer morn;
Lonesome in the sun, sedate,
Yet a touch forlorn

Graves of many, long ago,
Who lived near this place;
Disrepair, but even so,
It’s a lovely trace

Sleeping, on the mountainside,
In a hundred beds,
Flowerings of humankind
Each last petal sheds

Let the trees grow strong and high
And the wind blow straight:
We’ll all be here by-and-by,
Past the open
Gate

{ … the empty silence … }

the empty silence swallows us
when we tune out the noise;
the politics of hatred in
a world of equipoise –

the hollowness of everything,
the shadows in our eyes —
the camera that shows the soul
behind all our disguise —

we give in to the hatred, and
the calumny, the violence:
but come to reckoning at last
within the empty silence.

the empty silence swallows us
and chokes our last confession:
we saviors who would fix the earth,
but die within
depression

For All That Dreamers Dream

… there is a cost.

For those who know, the quiet’s like a salve;
A balm to soothe the aching, wounded soul –
A therapeutic that is there to have
Whenever life or liars leave a hole

A whole entire world of wondrous sights
Will open up for those who scale the heights –
Upon the wind of solitude to soar;
The nadir and the apex – what they’re for –

For all that dreamers dream, there is a cost:
The peace that’s needed, just to take in breath –
The separation that is part of death –
The death that is the dream forever lost

Lost everywhere, but not beyond reclaim:
For love’s a dream with wings, and knows no shame